


Nightmare Town

by Giroshane



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lots of Angst, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, these boys gotta lot of problems to work out and they're not really doing it in the best way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giroshane/pseuds/Giroshane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stan's life would be going a whole lot smoother if his dreams weren't bad enough that they sent him to Ford's room every night.</p><p> </p><p>((Begins a week after Tale of Two Stans, the night before DD&mD))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The portal was open! Finally, after thirty years of trying and trying and losing and regaining hope so many times, it was working! His brother could come back!_

_But...something was wrong. Nothing was coming through the portal. Wait! There it was! A silhouette, Ford it was Ford he was--_

_The silhouette was falling through the portal--collapsing through the portal. Oh no was he hurt!? Stan scrambled to his feet despite the scream of his old bones telling him not to and bolted for the figure._

_And when the figure came into view, Stan froze. No. No no no no no. Not after all this time, not after all these years, not after all his mistakes, not after everything. The lifeless body on the ground brought hell crashing through Stanley's mind and all he could do was scream._

_"STANFORD!"_

~

"Stanford!" He choked, falling out of the bed in his scramble and landing with a loud, painful thud. He hardly felt it though, all he could feel was anguish, anguish and terror. That dream felt too real, too much like memory and that was something he couldn’t handle. Adrenaline rushed through him and he burst out of his own room and pounded down the stairs because he had to make sure it wasn’t true (it couldn’t be true _it’s not true it’s not true it’s not true_ ).

He didn’t know how he managed to open the basement room door quietly (a part of him figured it should be locked, and the fact that it wasn’t only made him panic more), but he stood in the doorway panting like a dog for a good minute before relief finally seeped through him.

Ford was asleep on the couch, still fully dressed and covered in a blanket (why that many layers it was _August_ for christ’s sake) and _breathing_. Ford was _breathing_ and _alive_ and _safe_. All of his panic faded into exhaustion; he slowly padded over to an armchair across from the couch and collapsed into it. He ran a hand down his face with a quiet groan.

Stan was too old for this _shit_.

An idiotically hopeful part of him had believed that once his brother was back, the nightmares would go away. No more nightmares about never getting Ford back, about Ford being tortured in whatever hell dimension he had been trapped in, about Ford being _dead_. But no, if anything the nightmares seemed to have increased, like his mind couldn’t comprehend that he had succeeded.

Maybe because sometimes it felt like he hadn’t.

Ford avoided him like the plague, and when he spoke it was never more than a few terse words. The tension was so thick it couldn’t even be cut with a knife, or an axe, or whatever cutting weapon was stronger than that. They both knew if more than those words were exchanged, they would likely come to blows. So life went on in whatever twisted way it went on in now, with Ford in the basement doing god knows what and Stan upstairs running the (soon-to-be defunct) Mystery Shack and both of them pretending that the other didn’t really exist. Like ghosts to each other.

And then there was...this. Whatever this pathetic thing was. This thing where Stan’s nightmares would be so horrendously awful yet _real_ that he just had to make sure his brother was okay. This had been happening almost every night since Ford had returned, almost a week now. Stan would have a goddamn nightmare, he’d run down to check that Ford had a goddamn pulse, then, simultaneously exhausted and unable to go back to sleep, he’d sit in this goddamn armchair and made sure Ford kept that goddamn pulse. Once his eyelids started to grow heavy again he’d quietly make his exit, go back to bed, and no one would be the wiser.

He settled in, eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Ford’s shoulders.

“God, I feel like a creep.” He muttered to himself. He muttered those words to himself every night, but it never stopped him. He’d rather feel like a creep and know his brother was still alive, because every time he blinked the remains of his nightmare would flash in his eyelids. So he watched Ford breathe and let his mind circle in on the painful thoughts they always began to circle in on.

Creep, fuck-up, idiot, asshole, those kinds of words had always been used to describe him, hadn’t the--

“No.”

Stan started a little.

“Ford?” He leaned forward. Ford shifted, but his movements were twitchy.

“No...no, let me go…” He growled, rolling over roughly, only to turn back a moment later. Oh. He was still asleep. Stan felt a little uncomfortable, but indecision (and, he wasn't going to lie, fascination) kept him still. What was his brother dreaming about?

“Get off me this instant!” Ford swiped the air, shuddering a little. Whatever he said next was in some guttural language Stan had never heard before, but the force behind the words was essentially the same. Stan shifted uncomfortably. It would make sense that Ford would have nightmares: he’d been through as much shit as--if not more than--Stan had. But being privy to the man’s nightmares felt a little bit like crossing the line. Then again, he was currently watching Ford sleep. The line was already crossed.

Suddenly Ford jolted, practically sitting upright, every muscle in his body rigid and tense. He immediately fell back down, still rigid and tense and struggling in his spot. He choked on nothing and he clawed at a spot in the center of his chest.

Ok, Stan had seen enough. He couldn't just sit there and watch Ford in pain. He walked over to where his brother lay, a little wary of any sudden movements Ford might make.

“Ford?” He tried first. “Ford wake up.”

It didn't work--Ford continued to convulse. Stan tentatively touched Ford’s shoulder.

“Ford you’re having a nightmare.” He raised his voice, a little more nervous now. That garnered no response either. Stan cursed under his breath and shook Ford by the shoulder.

“Ford it's not real! _Ford_! Wake up!”

Ford shot up gasping, panting for breath like he had just resurfaced from drowning underwater. He shuddered as he heaved, but as soon as he noticed Stan’s hand on his shoulder he swatted it away violently.

“Let go of me!” He snarled, recoiling away from Stan, one hand still clutching at that spot on his chest, bunching in the fabric of his sweater. Stan immediately backed off, hands raised in a clearly non-threatening way.

“Okay, okay, jeez! Just, calm down, Ford. It was just a nightmare.”

Ford blinked a few times, then relaxed--barely--against the back of the couch. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back; his breathing was still very heavy, and he winced as he massaged the spot on his chest.

“Are you...are you ok there?” Stan asked. Ford startled, as if he had forgotten (or never realized) Stan was there. For a moment he tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. When they did, they were very breathy.

“Stanley? What are you doing here?”

Ah shit. Ford would flip if he knew Stan had been watching him sleep. Stan shifted, coming up with a lie on the spot.

“I uh, I heard you screaming, Ford. Surprised you didn't wake the kids up with the racket you were making.” He said. Ford narrowed his eyes confusedly.

“But...I wasn't screaming. I was...I couldn't breathe.”

“Well I was just coming downstairs for something when I heard you struggling or whatever in here, and I figured I'd wake you up rather than let you suffer through...whatever the hell you were suffering through.” Stan gestured lamely with his hand. This time when Ford narrowed his eyes, it was with suspicion, not confusion. Ah crap.

“You changed your story.”

Stan should have known better than to try covering his tracks when Ford still had traces of that goddamn paranoia. He was too used to conning the idiots of the town, not his genius brother. But he wasn't about to give up yet.

“I don't know, all I know is that I heard you in here and didn’t particularly like what I heard, okay? I'm an old man, ain't my memory allowed to be bad?” He grumbled defensively. Hopefully his standoffishness would discourage Ford from prying much further.

“Look, just, I'm going to go back t--”

“You’re lying.” Ford cut him off. Stan cursed internally. Ford wasn't looking at him, he was looking past him at the armchair. Where his robe lay. Because it had slipped off when he stood up to wake up Ford. _Dammit_.

“You were sitting there--you--you were watching me sleep! What the hell Stanley!?” His brother cried. Stan fumbled to explain; it was difficult to admit the truth to his brother--he felt pathetic that this was happening at all.

“Look--l-look, I can explain--it's just--I just--I can't help it--”

“You’ve already meddled enough with my life, you have to be a nuisance when I’m trying to sleep, too?” Ford shouted over him. And just like that, everything in Stan chilled down to icy rage.

Nuisance? Was that really all he was to Ford, even now? Not getting a “thank you” or being overly acknowledged by his brother, that he had been dealing with (sort of). But this? A _nuisance_? It reopened an old wound and suddenly it was thirty years ago again.

_“I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!”_

A worthless nuisance. That’s all he was. It’s not like he hadn’t thrown words like that in his own face for years upon years but to hear them from someone he still ( _still_ ) cared about, it always stung worse. Stan blinked away the burning in his eyes and clenched his fists. He didn’t even have the words to respond. So he did what he always did when he didn’t have anything to say: he turned on his heel and walked out.

“I--wait, Stanley--”

Stan slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t need Ford to try and lie about what he said and what he meant. He knew when he wasn’t wanted (it was such a common feeling to begin with). It wasn’t until he shut the door to his own room that he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He sure as hell didn’t let any tears fall. He had cried enough over his brother, and Ford made it clearer every day that he hadn’t done anything of the kind.

But of course, sleep was an elusive bitch. And he forgot his robe in Ford’s room. Just great.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Papa needs a new pair of...TWINS!”_

_It landed on--no! Probabilitor caught it!_

_“What? You thought you could cheat me?” He cackled, revealing the gum Stan had stuck to it. Fuck!_

_Sick horror washed through him and everyone else was gasping--well, except for Probabilitor, who was laughing triumphantly._

_“Cheating means disqualification! Disqualification means you lose!”_

_Suddenly everything glitched, like someone hit fast forward on a video tape Stan wished wasn’t being played._

_Now his world was fire and blood, screaming as he was pinned down by magic, forced to watch the horrible spectacle. No matter how much he wanted to close his eyes, he couldn’t, not as Dipper’s blood was spilled brutally, the boy’s bloodcurdling scream mixing with his sister’s, being held down next to him. God, Stan wished he could shield her, she didn’t deserve to see this. None of them deserved this, how could Stan let this happen!?_

_“Stan, why did you do it!?” Ford was shrieking in terror and betrayal, being dragged to his own slaughter. “Why did you cheat!? Why did you ruin everything!? You killed us! You killed us!”_

_“Ford! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!” Stan sobbed, and, again, he couldn't close his eyes as his brother was murdered too._

_“FORD! NO!”_

_~_

Dipper! Ford! Oh god, no no no no _no_. Stan rocketed out of bed, barely seeing clearly but knowing the Shack well enough to run down the hall and up the stairs to the attic. There was nothing but the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears as he climbed.

_Dipper is alive! He has to be alive, he has to be!_

Yet the fear and insane panic wouldn't leave him, kept him thinking that when he opened the door, only one bed would be filled. And to his horror, when he did open the twins’ door, _Dipper wasn't there_.

Mabel was in her bed, he could see it, but Dipper’s bed was _empty_. He felt his heartbeat spike higher.

_No! But he was alive! Dipper and Ford were alive!_

Some twisted, inhuman sound tore from his throat as he turned on his heel and shot back down the stairs. He didn't hear Mabel wake up behind him. All he could think was to check downstairs, because if Dipper was gone then Ford would be gone but _neither of them were gone they couldn't be gone._

He had too much momentum flying down the stairs and down the hallway--he slammed into the wall at the end of it, but that didn't stop him. He flew around the corner and--

“Stanley?”

“Grunkle Stan?”

But this wasn't like other times--the relief at his family being alive only felt sickening. He couldn't get his eyes to focus and it felt like everything was spinning. His heart was pounding too loudly and his ears were ringing. He stumbled and fell back against the wall, trying to remember what breathing normally felt like.

“Stanley? Stanley are you alright?” There was a hand on his shoulder, another over his heart. He felt like he should answer the question, but he seemed to have lost his vocal chords.

“What's going on?” That was Mabel, groggy and confused, and still yawning. “I think I heard something deeply broken and terrifying break into our room and then run downstairs. Was--hey, is Grunkle Stan okay? Did the something chase him?”

“Kids, go upstairs, go to bed.” Ford ordered.

“Great Uncle Ford, what's going on?” Dipper asked. What was the boy even doing up this late, and with Ford? Stan couldn't think clearly enough to come up with answer (hell, it was a miracle he even thought of the question. Why couldn't he just calm down?).

“Upstairs, _now_.” Ford ordered again, leaving no room for arguments. The kids jumped a little at the force in his words, and obediently ran off. Then Ford turned his attention back to Stan.

“Stan, Stanley, can you hear me?” The hand moved up his shoulder to his throat, and Stan flinched, because he’d been strangled too many times in his life to view it as anything but an attack. But it’s not like he could fight it--he was shaking too badly. Either way, he realized that Ford was trying to check his pulse, not hurt him. He still couldn’t find the voice to answer though.

“Stan, focus on me, alright? You need to calm down, we need to slow down your heart rate. Stanley? Stanley look at me.”

When Stan did look at him, his vision suddenly became crystal clear and filled with _blood_ , Ford’s blood, his brother’s skull carved off and it was horrifying how much detail his brain could supply. He shuddered and flinched away, struggling to get away from the image. The dizziness that hit him again nearly sent him to the ground. Ford cursed under his breath and held on tight.

“Okay, okay,” He gritted, “Looking at me, bad idea, got it. Stan, listen to me, your heartbeat is too erratic, you need to calm down. Let’s start with your breathing. Can you try taking deep breaths?”

Stan couldn’t speak and it was a fight to stay standing, he could hardly focus on his breathing, and he hoped the scathing (hopefully scathing) look he shot his brother (his brother’s chest, to be more apt--looking up meant seeing all that blood again) conveyed that.

“ _Dammit_ , Stanley.” Ford hissed. The hand over Stan’s heart vanished, but after a pause and a sigh it suddenly reappeared, wrapping around his own hand. Ford laid Stan’s hand over his own heart. Six fingers over five over fabric over skin over muscle over bone over _heartbeat_.

“Stanley, I know you can hear me, please, I know you can feel this.” And he could, the expansion and deflation of Ford’s chest as he breathed deeply. “Just breathe in time with me, alright? In--”

Focused on the feel of Ford’s breathing, Stan realized how stuttered and staggered his own was. And it was a challenge to slow it down.

“--and out. Just keep doing this, Stanley. In…out...in...out...”

Stan wasn't sure how long it took, but soon he was breathing in unison with Ford. His shaking gradually stopped, and with it so did the panic, and the nightmare-filled haze of his mind. Instead it was replaced by exhaustion, and he sagged a little.

“Stanley?” Ford murmured, noticing the change. When Stan looked at him, he didn't see blood nor gore this time. He still hadn't managed to find his vocal chords yet, thought. All he managed was a weak nod.

“Alright,” Ford’s hands changed, both going to his shoulders to help support and guide him to the armchair in Ford’s room. “Let's just get you seated, okay? Take it easy.”

It was strange--it was beyond strange--Stan couldn't place the feeling he had, the feeling he had about Ford’s hands on his shoulders, it...it…

It was the first real, non-violent contact the two had had since Ford had returned.

And Stan wasn't really sure how he felt about it. It didn't matter, because as soon as he sat down the contact was gone. It briefly returned in the form of Ford draping Stan’s robe over his shoulders (he had never retrieved it, making it his prerogative the day before to interact with his brother as little as possible--although it didn’t turn out the way he planned). He shakily tugged the robe tighter around him as Ford sat down on his couch across from him, legs and arms crossed and looking all the world like a concerned parent. That bothered Stan a little bit--he wasn’t a fucking child--but he didn’t have the energy to make any sort of protest. Finally after a moment of wary staring at each other, Ford exhaled.

“How long have you been having dreams like this, Stanley?” He asked.

Stan huffed weakly with a humorless smile. He had found his voice, weak and hoarse, but chock full of fatigue and bitterness.

“From which point would you like me to start, poindexter?” He replied. “The day I lost you, or the day I brought you back?”

Ford stiffened immediately, and that bitter part of Stan relished in his obvious discomfort. He wouldn’t lie: some of the resentment from last night’s humiliation still lingered. It had lingered all the previous day, his head swirling with the thought: _you think I’m a nuisance? I’ll show you a fucking nuisance._ He knew that Ford offering for him to join his game was his form of an olive branch for the night before, but Stan had still been too upset to accept it, far preferring to ridicule his brother and live up to his new “nuisance” title. Which...really hadn’t panned out very well.

“Stanley, are you telling me you’ve been having nightmares so bad that you’ve nearly been sending yourself into _cardiac arrest_ for the past thirty years?” Ford gritted, leaning forward a little. Stan couldn’t read the emotions flitting across the man’s face.

Oh. Well, uh...damn. Cardiac arrest? That explained a lot.

“N-not exactly. Not, not this bad.” He mumbled. “I just...yesterday, you and Dipper...that douche was gonna _eat_ your _brains_ , Ford. So tonight--I--I guess--” Stan sighed and wiped a hand down his face. “Imagination is a cruel dick. Always has been.”

“Well, that I can relate to.” Ford huffed, leaning back against the couch.

“So,” He carried on, “You’ve been having ongoing nightmares for a while now, and they feel real enough that you absolutely have to make sure they’re _not_ real. Am I correct?”

Stan shifted uncomfortably. Ford hit the nail right on the head.

“Yeah.” He nodded finally.

“And most of them involve me or the children being dead. Am I correct?”

“...Yeah.” The dreams were almost always about Ford, not the kids. He had had a few about Dipper and Mabel in danger after some really bad events--a particularly nasty one after the zombie attack, even--but his dreams pretty much consistently decided to torture him with Ford’s death, not theirs. But that was hard to admit directly. So sure, let the genius think that Stan just worried about his whole family in general.

“Or are they mostly just about me?”

Well fuck.

Stan’s lack of response really just confirmed that for Ford, and the man sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose above his glasses. He seemed frustrated, almost, and Stan understood it: he shouldn’t be having these kinds of fears any more. But he did.

“I’m back and I’m alive, Stanley. I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.”

“You’re out of the portal but you still have nightmares about it.” Stan pointed out. Ford looked about to protest, but then he relaxed.

“Touche.” He conceded. “Although usually I maintain enough control in my own dreamscape to not lose sense of what’s real and what’s not--although last night seems to be on a growing list of exceptions. I’m glad you woke me up.”

Stan didn’t have time to be shocked by the _almost_ “thanks” from his brother; Ford quickly continued like he was trying to cover up his words.

“Anyway, that’s why I have a...a proposition.”

“Really?” Stan sneered. If the word ‘therapy’ left his brother’s mouth he would leave the room right then and there. There was no way in hell he was ever trying that route again.

“Well,” Ford scratched his neck awkwardly. “I--uh--I’ve been thinking about this all day. I...I figured, with the way you phrased it last night, you’ve been watching me sleep every night--which I _am_ still uncomfortable about, you should have told me from the start--but, if the pattern were to hold true, you’d come down here again tonight. So I decided to stay awake and wait for you. Then Dipper came down because he couldn’t sleep, and we started talking and--he was asking about my scars…”

Ford trailed off shyly, staring down at his arms, which Stan just noticed were completely bare. Ford wasn’t wearing his trenchcoat, and had rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, and-- _moses, his scars_. There were _tons_ of them, slashing up and down his arms. Some looked like burn marks. There were scars around his wrists that were likely from his hands being bound together too tightly, and there was one strange scar that peeked out by Ford’s left elbow that suspiciously looked like a tentacle. Dear god, some of his skin just looked like straight up _patchwork_.

 _No wonder he covers up_ , Stan thought nervously. God knows what else was covering his body under that sweater. The idea sent guilt coursing through him. _He_ was the reason Ford had them at all.

 _Some brother you turned out to be_.

“We actually both fell asleep! Haha…” Ford chuckled, unaware that Stan was so stricken. “Then...then we heard you.” His expression became gravely serious again.

“I have the feeling if I suggest what I was originally planning to suggest, you’d punch me in the face; I’d likely do the same if you suggested it to me. So instead: you can keep coming down here, when you have night terrors like this.”

The stricken look on Stan’s face didn't change, although the reason behind it did. Ford was... _okay_ with this?

“When your mind is in a state like that, denying you the ability to bring it out of that state is just cruel. If seeing me alive will help calm you down, I won't stop you. And,” Ford added, “it's mutually beneficial. If I have a night terror similar to last night, you can wake me up again. It's a win-win scenario.”

Well of course it wouldn’t be worth doing unless Ford got something out of it. But still...at least Ford wasn’t angry at him anymore. Not for watching him while he slept, at least. Stan shifted slightly.

“Ya know, uh, my dreams aren’t always this bad.” He tried to play it off. Ford shot him a look and he defended himself. “Look, I’m just sayin’ I might not come down here every night.”

“That’s more than fine.” Ford waved it off.

“Even you have some kinda nightmare?”

“I can handle my own dreams if it comes down to it.” Ford said, dismissively this time. Stan knew if he kept prodding he’d just make his brother angry again, so he backed off.

“...Do you need to stay down here?” Ford asked, once the awkward silence had gone on long enough.

“No, no!” Stan said hurriedly, clambering to his feet. He had clambered to his feet too fast however--he immediately fell back down, vision swimming. He couldn’t help cursing and clutching his head.

“Right.” Ford said dryly. He stood up and crossed over to the light, switching it off. “Well, it _is_ late. And I do need sleep. You do too, preferably in your bed than that chair. You should go back once you feel strong enough.”

“Don’t worry, I _will_.” Stan couldn’t help the bit of fire in his voice; he could hear the patronizing tone in Ford’s. Ford completely ignored it, lying down on the couch and pulling his coat over him like a blanket. He set his glasses aside and rolled over so he wasn’t facing Stan.

“Goodnight.” He said curtly. Stan frowned.

“Goodnight.” He replied.

Stan had planned on leaving not long after that, but the fatigue of the night caught up with him quickly, and slammed him like a freight train.

The next morning, Ford was already in the basement when he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Improvement? Maybe. Progess? Not so sure. At least Ford's not yelling at Stan anymore, huh?
> 
> For all of those following this, thank you so much! I know it doesn't update often--and that's probably how it's going to stay, considering my other projects, but I refuse to let any fic go unfinished!
> 
> And I think it's a little obvious, but this fic is going to be mostly non-Weirdmageddon compliant now.

**Author's Note:**

> So! This marks my first journey into writing Gravity Falls. Of course I had to go with Stangst. This is going to be a bit of a slow build, and I can't promise I'll update regularly/often, but yeah! An exploration of wounds and damage through shared sleeping problems, feat. the Stan twins.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone is confused, I'm basically following as if roughly a week passes in between each episode, leading up to Dipper and Mabel vs. the Future (I think I'll have a post Weirdmageddon chapter, but I'm not sure how canon it will end up being :T). Whether or not I'll include chapters of nights that are in between the episodes is something I'm still figuring out. This was kind of a random plot bunny that hopped into my head.
> 
> Anyway, hope you like!


End file.
